


i need a hero

by FlowerButton



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 03:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15452559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerButton/pseuds/FlowerButton
Summary: 5 times someone saved Neville and 1 time he saved everyone else





	i need a hero

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! It has been almost 8 months since I last posted! You can thank A Levels for that!
> 
> I've finally finished another 'I hate this but I'm desperate to write this' draft so enjoy this.
> 
> No character death but watch out for the Battle of Hogwarts and stuff, as well as a description about Alice Longbottom's torture (it shouldn't be too graphic, so I haven't tagged it, but I don't know how much graphic-ness is necessary to be graphic so be careful!)
> 
> I don't own any of the characters, please don't sue me, yadda yadda, you know the drill.
> 
> Have fun with this! It is a mess of angst and bittersweetness!

1.

She was brave. It would be the word that history books would call her for generations on: the brave mother who had fought valiantly against Death Eaters, the brave mother who had tragically lost. It would be the word her mother-in-law would use to tell her grandson of his mother’s strength, of her devotion, of her love. It would be the word engraved on her headstone, and on the lips of anyone who said her name.

In that moment, however, Alice Longbottom, daughter of the Barnetts, wife of Frank, mother of Neville, did not feel brave. Her hands, calloused from gripping her wand too tightly too often, were shaking and sweaty with fear. Her pulse had skyrocketed, heavy in her ears, drum-like and rhythmic in its pressure to get her to run, to leave, to escape.

She couldn’t move.

Downstairs, she could hear her husband’s screams of pain as the intruders - undoubtedly Death Eaters, undoubtedly murderers, undoubtedly here for her son - tortured him. His charmwork had never been as quick as hers, his Defence marks never as high, but Frank was a talented wizard, a strong man; if he was screaming, unabashedly, then Alice knew it was over. The guffaws of the enemies lined the stairwell, the corridors, the house, and Alice heard them moving closer.

Neville lay swaddled in her arms, sleeping as peacefully as he could. For a brief second, Alice could forget the noise behind her; it washed away as she stared at her son’s face. He had Frank’s nose, twisted slightly up at the edge, and chubby cheeks that were a Barnett family heirloom. His curls, soft and brown, were just growing around his ears, and Alice could tell that his hair would grow quickly as he aged. Chubby fingers clutched at the cloth, his warm brown skin almost glowing under the yellowing light of the room. Alice wanted to stare at him forever, watch him grow and grow and grow until he was taller than her and Frank and even Uncle Algie. She wanted a forever with him.

The laughter seeped into her thoughts.

There was a silencing charm laced into his blanket, fizzling under her fingers as she held him tightly  _ (block out the noise, block out the screams; baby, that’s just Daddy, having bad dreams) _ . Neville nestled contentedly into his haphazard bed, nose twitching in his sleep.  Alice held back a sob as she moved him into a small cubby hole under the blankets in the airing cupboard. The door was white, had holes in the top, and Alice had mentioned several times to Augusta that Neville had taken to hiding in there whenever they played hide-and-seek. Augusta would know, when Alice’s Patronus summoned her; Augusta would care for Neville.

Her baby sniffled and snuffled, getting comfortable in a different position. Alice watched his face scrunch up, eyes flickering before he dropped back to sleep. His grip on the yellow blanket tightened  _ (“This was my old blanket, Alice! Mum must have dropped it off - Nev, kidder, do you like it? This was Daddy’s, this was my blanket, and now it’s yours.”) _ and Alice would have given anything to stay like that forever, to watch over him forever. Neville was safe, sleeping, happy. The door edged to almost closed behind her as she stepped away, leaning against the wall and raising her wand to the door.

Step. Neville was safe.

Step. Neville was safe.

Step. Neville was safe.

The first Cruciatus curse caught her off guard and she dropped to the floor in agony, screaming as loudly as Frank. Their shouts ricocheted between them, a cacophony of hellish noise that intermingled with the shrieks of Bellatrix Lestrange and her followers. The next Cruciatus, and the next, and the next, and the next tumbled into one, a messy, mind-numbing hellscape that rotted Alice inside-out.

If Alice had opened her eyes, she would have seen Neville’s eyes  _ (her colour, his father’s shape) _ staring owlishly at her. If she had taken away the silencing charm, she would have heard Neville’s cries ( _ “Mummy, Mummy, look! Mummy, food! Mummy, Daddy!”) _ and rushed to him. If she had been better, been stronger, been quicker, the Death Eaters would have been bloodied and dying at her feet, the soft wheezes of Bellatrix Lestrange seeping into the house’s memory instead of the putrid screams of the Longbottom family.

Neville was still wide-eyed when his grandmother pulled him from the cupboard fifteen minutes later, the Aurors behind her wrestling the manic Death Eaters into submission. Alice lay prone on the ground, eyes unblinking, body stiff; she was breathing, but barely, and shaking, but only just. Desperation clung to Augusta, who held her grandson out towards her unshifting form.

The Healers had just entered the house.

“Alice, darling, it’s Neville. You saved him, Alice, you saved him. You saved Neville.”

She drew the silencing charms away from his blanket, rocked him slightly as the tears began to fall. Neville glanced up at Augusta before he turned his attention to Alice, eyes wide.

“Mummy, Mummy! Gamma! Mummy, silly! Wakey! Mummy, up! Mummy, up!”

He giggled, reaching for her, and Augusta allowed his fingers to press to Alice’s face, her cheeks, her nose  _ (“Got your nose, baby! You want it back? Here we go!”) _

“Mummy, up!”

“Mummy, up!”

“Mummy?”

 

2.

They wanted her at the trial, and Augusta refused. She sent her husband instead whilst she rocked her crying grandson to sleep, holding him tightly. Any moment, another swarm of Lestranges could flood through the door, their wand arms swinging, and she couldn’t let her children’s sacrifices be in vain.

Protect Neville. That was her job now.

She had been alive during Grindelwald's time, had felt his sinister form flood through the city, the country, the world. Augusta had run from fires started by his fanatics in the dead of night, held her friends as their families turned up dead and dead and dying, and fought defiantly for an unknown future. For her future children, for her grandchildren.

In times like this, she didn’t know if she had succeeded at all.

Frank and Alice were stable, breathing, but they didn’t register anyone except the nurses. Their beds lay beside one another and Augusta had already had six blankets knitted for them, just in case. Alice’s hair needed cutting, it was getting so long, and Frank had wet the bed three times already  _ (“Mum? Mum, sorry, but I - I know it’s late and I’m too old but I had a nightmare and -”) _ so Augusta was getting two more blankets made. Neville hadn’t been to see them yet, staying with Algie when she visited them, but his cries every night meant he’d need to go soon.

Reporters slithered around the family, seeping in at the cracks in the floorboards, desperate for a glance at the baby who had been there, who had seen the fighting happen. Augusta had thrown a cauldron at the last journalist that had tried to photograph Neville, ending up paying the shopkeeper twice as much to keep quiet about it. Her grandson had slept through it, only waking once to cry out for his father, and then settling back into a restless sleep.

Neville didn’t sleep well. He shifted in his cot, which was pressed against the wall of his grandparents’ room, and he wailed loudly for his parents almost every hour  _ (“Now, now, Frankie, there’s no need to cry for us; we’re right here. Nothing’s going to harm you, darling. Sleep now, Mum’s here.”) _ Augusta didn’t sleep either, too desperate to keep Neville from hurting himself, too paranoid to close her eyes.

She charmed the door with every known protection spell. She bought Muggle locks and Muggle keys, wizarding locks and wizarding keys. She set up a magical barrier. She bought a fence. She made Floo traps for anyone unrecognised by the system. She set fire to three different newspapers that suggested Frank and Alice had been weak, four different letters from fanatics that tried to scare her, and a letter from Dumbledore apologising for her loss.

_ (“Did you know?” she would ask him years later, months before his inevitable fall. He would be standing outside their hospital door, staring inwards with a face devoid of emotion. “Did you know that they were being targeted?” _

_ “I had my suspicions,” he would reply, or maybe he would stay silent. Maybe he would argue with her, debate her grief with his own guilt. Maybe he would apologise again. _

_ Maybe he would tell the truth. No, he would lie. _

_ “I didn’t know,” he would say. “I didn’t know anything.”) _

Whilst Augusta breathed, Neville would be safe. She would make it so. She would do anything to make it so.

 

3.

Harry took too long to get the cloak, in Hermione’s opinion. She was listening intently for his shoes hitting the stairs, Ron restless next to her. He glanced at her every so often, frowning in concern, and understanding passed through their eyes.

This was a necessity. It needed to be done. The Stone had to be protected.

As Harry fumbled back into the common room, Ron leapt to his feet. The glow of the fire shadowed his face, darkening his already serious look, and Harry began talking.

“We’d better put the cloak on here, and make sure it covers all three of us - if Filch spots one of our feet wandering along on its own -”

Hermione reached for the cloak, already stepping towards her friends in an attempt to squish herself to them, when Neville’s voice piped up.

“What are you doing?”

Her heart stopped and she stared, almost dumbstruck, at the small boy in the corner. Trevor  _ (stupid Trevor, making everything worse) _ seemed to judge her with his eyes, a constant reminder she was breaking the rules. Neville himself was rigid with nerves, and she almost pitied him.

Couldn’t he see this was necessary?

“Nothing, Neville, nothing,” Harry said, swinging the cloak behind him in a desperate attempt to cover it. Too late, Hermione knew. She could see the recognition in Neville’s eyes, the awareness thrumming through their gaze. Ron stiffened behind her, picking up on the silent cue that was elicited from her tense shoulders  _ (trouble, trouble, boil and bubble; Neville, please just go to bed!) _

“You’re going out again.”

It was a statement, allowing their denial, although every party knew it was fruitless. Neville watched Hermione closely, a firm frown across his face, and she felt the guilt simmer in her stomach.

“No, no, no. No, we’re not. Why don’t you go to bed Neville?”  _ (Don’t make this harder for us, please. It’s necessary. We have to do this.) _

“You can’t go out, you’ll be caught again. Gryffindor will be in even more trouble.”

Harry was trying to reason with him, Hermione could hear, but all she felt was the numbing shame. They couldn’t waste time, and yet here Neville was; her friend, her first real friend, defying her now in a time when she needed him not to. He couldn’t read her, not like Ron or Harry could. If he stayed, they would be in trouble. They would be expelled. If he came with them, he would be hurt.

“I’ll fight you!”

It was a weak threat; Neville didn’t stand a chance, not against any of them. But the boys were gearing up to get past by any means necessary. Desperation, the need to move, the need to stop Snape; all were pushing at the back of their minds. Hermione needed to keep Neville safe, away from the action.

He wouldn’t stand a chance against them, but he would be decimated by Snape.

“I’ll fight you!” No. Hermione couldn’t let that happen.

Ron pressed on, annoyance turning into exasperation. Neville was stood firm against the door, the determination and resilience so new to himself that he seemed shocked by it. Hermione twisted her hand towards her wand, slowly pulling it out.

Necessity.  _ (Forgive me.) _

Harry looked at her. She could see his concern, his worry, his desperation, and she barely registered the words coming out of his mouth.

“Do something.”

She stepped forwards, shoes muffled by the rug on the floor. Neville swung his eyes from Ron to her, voice caught in his throat as he stiffened protectively.

“Neville. I’m really, really sorry about this.”  _ (Please, forgive me. First friend. Good friend. Good person. Please, don’t judge me. This is necessary.) _

She raised her wand.

 

4.

When Remus first entered the room, he could name almost every child in there. It was something he’d learnt from Professor McGonagall - Minerva, he knew, was never going to be a name that rolled easily off his tongue - after being offered the job. Knowing their names meant a closer connection to each and Remus wanted that connection. Students worked better in a positive environment, studies had shown, and Remus wanted this job to work. He wanted his students working well, and happily, even with the escape of Sirius looming dangerously over the school.

He wasn’t prepared for Neville.

The boy wasn’t as lanky as Alice had been but was as tall, with baby fat that would disappear with puberty. His eyes were wide, like Frank’s, but warm and inviting like Alice’s, and he had a nervousness about him that was entirely his own. His lip was bitten slightly, as if he’d been nervous or scared, and Remus was unsure as to why; this was a school, not a war zone.

_ (Give it four years, Remus, and this room will covet dead bodies like gold.) _

They travelled down the corridors, with a brief interval song from Peeves ( _ “Loopy Lupin! Eh, James, d’ya reckon I could get Peeves singing that by the end of the day? What do you think, Pete? C’mon, Remus, lighten up - don’t be so Sirius!”) _ , and Remus forced himself to concentrate on his steps instead of on the song.

Severus was waiting in the staffroom, his sadistic sneer almost gloating as he stood up. Remus knew they could never be friends, not after Severus and James’ explosive relationship, but he liked to think they could be civil. So far, no good, but Remus was willing to work on it.

He was trying to move on.

_ (You can’t, you can’t; it’s been years and you still see them in every corner of the castle.) _

“Possibly no one’s warned you, Lupin,” he said, voice mocking, and Remus felt a chill in his stomach, “but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I would advise you not to entrust him with anything difficult.”

_ (“He called Peter a daft bell-end and then sabotaged his potion! Lily, c’mon, you can’t defend that!”) _

It was the same jab that Remus expected from a five-year-old. He hadn’t defended Peter then, not like Lily, who had exploded at Severus like a firestorm, but he could see the embarrassment clog up Neville’s face in exactly the same way. His warm sepia skin became warmer, his eyes became cloudier, and his lip was bitten into -

Severus. Ah.

Remus raised his eyebrows, stood a little straighter, and did what any good teacher would do: he defended his student.

“I was hoping Neville would assist me with the first stage of the operation,” he said, voice calm but tinged with his old Prefect Defiance, “and I am sure he will perform it admirably.”

It was a dare, a wolfish snarl behind the gentle facade, and Severus seemed to take note, as he spun on his heel towards the door. Neville’s face was even warmer  _ (like Peter’s had been, when Lily had thrown down the gauntlet; like James’ had been, when Lily had heeded his advice) _ but the pride had returned to his eyes, the defiance that Alice had held so well. He was the Longbottoms’ son, all right; he just needed some support getting there.

Remus turned back to his class and started his lesson. He could do support.

 

5.

Harry liked Neville. He was funny, sometimes unintentionally, and he was a good friend, if not always the quickest. His talents were obscure enough to be handy, occasionally interesting, and always difficult for Harry to understand. He was quiet but defiant, strong but gave off a weak appearance, and he was determined in the best possible ways.

He was a likeable guy, albeit not popular.

So when Neville was left partnerless, Harry could understand; Neville’s skills did not lie in Defence Against the Dark Arts by any stretch of the imagination. But Neville was determined, defiant,  _ (and good, incredibly good, Harry would discover how good Neville was very soon) _ .

Harry remembered Lupin’s teachings.  He was calm and understanding, never spoke too harshly, and always gave Harry time to recover from his attempts at the Patronus charm. If Harry could be like that then Neville stood a chance. Harry could be a good teacher.

“Go on, Neville,” he said, even as he moved too quickly for his friend to disarm him. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

When Harry was disarmed by him - despite it being in a moment lacking concentration - the glee in Neville’s face was enough to make him feel a little better about this, a little more certain. He could teach them all.

When Neville disarmed Ron during the next session, during a concentrated moment, that assurity swam over him again, and Harry felt the determination solidify.

_ (Neville would tell Harry later how the DA saved his life, gave him something to work towards, helped him live another day in the middle of a war that neither child should have been a part of. _

_ Harry would break down in tears because they were alive.) _

 

+1.

Neville had been breathing for hundreds of people for months, so when Harry had returned with Ron and Hermione in tow, declaring that the war was coming to Hogwarts, it was almost a relief. Immediately, people were breathing for themselves again, as if every single one could be their last, and the weight of their suffering lessened on Neville’s back.

_ (He had taken each one in, made a wall against the hell of Hogwarts by trying to keep their spirits up, but they were trapped in a castle thousands of miles from their homes, in the middle of an occupied zone. He hadn’t been having much luck.) _

The first half of the battle swamped them, with casualties left and right. Neville threw hex after hex, used curses he’d never even thought he’d remember from lessons he’d never had. He watched Lavender Brown fall to the ground and sought vengeance for Colin Creevey’s murder. He threw shields up around persistent second years who had joined the fight in search of glory and sent them packing with members of the Order. He might have killed - he didn’t remember - but it ended with bodies laying on the ground and his mind numb to the bloodied taste of the air.

Harry passed him at one point, the two stopping to talk for a few moments, but Neville only remembered it distantly, as if it were a dream and not a memory.  _ (For Harry, this was a reminder that life could continue without him, that Neville could take his place and start the world anew. This was a hopeful moment for Harry.) _ He gave him an order - “Kill the snake.” - and Neville had agreed, asked him if he was okay, told him they could fight on.

They would fight on.

The limp body in Hagrid’s arms was a shock to them all. McGonagall’s shout resonated inside Neville’s head, ricocheting around his skull. Her loss was his, mirrored in the eyes and shrieks and cries of every child around them. ( _ He had carried their suffering on his back for months.) _ He felt the cold seep into his bones, all too familiar to him, but pushed it away.

He couldn’t stop now.

Harry had given him an order  _ (kill the snake) _ before he had died.

He wouldn’t stop now.

Neville stood taller, held his wand tighter  _ (calloused hands from gripping it too tight)  _ and launched himself towards Voldemort  _ (say his name) _ .

The jeering was nothing he couldn’t face  _ (“I’ll join you when hell freezes over! Dumbledore’s Army!”) _ and the hat’s flames were nothing compared to the cold emptiness he’d held onto for months. It seared, burnt around his head like a halo of warmth, and he smelt acidic disgust rising up his throat but it didn’t hurt; perhaps it was the hat’s magic. Perhaps it was his strength. Perhaps it was something else.

It didn’t hurt at all.

The sword was cold on his head. Neville took it and swung.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, and want more character angst from the author who seems to write only this then please consider my fics [you know i love you so](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998915) which is about Luna or [and we went dancing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627383) which is about Lily and James or [Favourites](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9391574) which is about McGonagall.
> 
> Or you can come say hi on my tumblr!
> 
> Or you could just have a super nice day?


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